


Promises in the Shadows

by QueenIsMyLove



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8058082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenIsMyLove/pseuds/QueenIsMyLove
Summary: A story of what really happened in 1976, during the recording of A Day at the Races.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I've been beating myself over this story for a while now, trying to make it into something presentable. Then, I realized - no matter how many times I reread this, I will never be satisfied with my work. Mostly because I am writing out people which inspire me to keep strong and move on, every day. Thus, I gift you this, as unfinished and ignorant as it is.
> 
> I must note, all the errors are mine. Both, in regard with the language and the inconsistencies with events from said year.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not mean any disrespect to Queen and its members. This is a mere work of fiction.
> 
> That being done, have at it!

The same extravagance, which is a requirement for all their parties, is present in the air. Obscene decorations all around, elegant furniture too inviting and expensive art attracting eyes. Svelte and not so svelte figures mingling around, rubbing against each other in passing. The bass is cranked up to the very brim, but no one seems to care much.

The hall is swamped with people and all the ground rules for a party are covered, so Roger stands hiding in the shadows, observing behaviors. There are the tipsy men and women twirling around, completely missing the beat; it looks entirely improper. The few couples hidden behind the curtains, devouring bodies regardless of their location; even more so. Yet, it is not exactly a rarity and that is one of the reasons why their parties are so loved, hence Taylor simply shakes his head in absolute dismissal.

Roger’s gaze ventures further, and he smirks at the too familiar frown he finds creasing Deaky’s face. Leave it to the bassist to be the only displeased with the proceedings of the night. Roger traces the length of John’s gaze. Consequently, his eyes land on Freddie, who as usual, has a group of people trying to suffocate him. The man is laughing vigorously, head thrown back and a glint of mischief in his eyes. All in all, his natural attitude.

Roger is almost sure that very combination tincturing Freddie’s beaming face is the reason behind John’s sullen expression. Freddie’s shoulders keep shaking with laughter, oblivious, even when he looks at the crowds again. Roger is convinced the singer is having a hell of a time, absorbing in the most of the party. Something the drummer himself should be doing, except for an unexplainable reason he is not too keen to socialize with strangers and fans.

An overly familiar voice startles him out of his appraisals. “I thought this was John’s corner.”

Despite his meagre mood, Roger is unable to prevent himself from retaliating amicably, “I confiscated it for the night.”

Brian’s chuckle is worth the effort. “Is that why he is so querulous?”

“I think that has something to do with Freddie,” Roger shares his doubts, in a voice a shade brittle. “I am not sure as to what exactly, though.”

A hum of apprehension is the only response he gets.

Roger’s eyes are still on Freddie, and he sees the moment when the front-man catches John’s expression and understanding dawns on his face. The drummer's lips twitch at the familiarity Freddie's expression carries.The man in question excuses himself from the company and, all his airs and graces intact, heads towards the bassist. Roger observes the slightly heated interaction which has Freddie’s mouth twist in a smile, and by the time the conversation is over, he realizes he has entirely forgotten Brian’s presence behind him.

He prompts, “May, you there?”

“Yes, but not for much longer. To be honest, Freddie sent me.”

The maudlin song changes for one with a more lively rhythm, which has Freddie pull John into the center of attention. The slightly taller John still seems rather unimpressed, his expression only accurately described as pained, though he is hiding it with a performed smile. Roger imagines Deaky favors him because he never tries to relegate interactions over him, unlike everyone else apparently.

“Why’s that?” Roger questions, returning to the conversation at hand.

Meanwhile, John sneaks out from between the tightly huddled people, each step estimated with engineered precision, and settles back to his original spot undetected. At least, one of them is successful at escaping from the unrequired and most certainly unwanted attention, Roger notes. Though, objectively, John is and always has been rather a professional compared to the blonde himself and has always been more furtive in crowds than the drummer himself.

Roger scribbles down a reminder in a dusty drawer of his mind; he must ask for useful advice at their earliest convenience. If he should ever need an easy escape when coarseness presents itself on the asocial spectrum. Or, if the hidden desire to observe Brian from afar arises to enslavement of every breathing moment.

The guitarist, who seems unaware of the drummer’s turmoil, continues to radiate heat where shrouded over Roger’s back. A flare of nostrils does nothing in elevating the drummer’s torso with much needed crisp air. Only when fingers curl in a moist palm, does Roger detect his own fretful countenance. Eyeing the space before him, the drummer realizes he cannot move ahead without giving up his location for all to see. He remains standing in the mayhem Brian’s body awakes in him, resisting the compulsion to let go in those arms, which are certain to catch him.

The taller man provides an effective contradiction of his always digging deep in a subject, as he possesses blindness when a thin boundary threatens to tear a friendship years’ worth. This isn’t much of a surprise for the drummer. He has found a way to guard his preoccupations to himself, when needed. It is a must when keeping a secret from one of the men who know you best.

“Well, one member of the band being out of spirits is always a constancy and not too big of a deal, but that member is _never_ you, Rog.”

Roger huffs a breath, but keeps silent. Brian is right, so the drummer doesn’t find much room to fight.

Brian simply continues, “So, I was sent to _heighten your spirits and make sure your ass bloody joins the party at last._ Freddie’s words, not mine.”

A jab of malady blossoms in the blond man’s chest.

“You are doing a shit job out of that,” Roger snaps, stalking out of the shadows with wistfulness surging pimples over his upper back, and into the party he goes. If they want him to be merry, he can fucking do it. But, he doesn’t have to like it.

No one sees the hurt expression which crosses Brian’s face, and Brian is somewhat pleased about that.

Roger pushes past the crowd with a flamboyant smile plastered on his face, beguiling the strangers who cross his path. His eyes zero in on Freddie, and he snatches a drink from the first passing waiter. He downs the substance in one gulp without even trying to identify its contents, as though it would help diminish his anger. Then, he grabs one more firmly in his grasp, for good measure.

He shoves his glasses down over his eyes to hide the vehemence in his glare. Even through the clothes he is wearing, the bodies he brushes past on his way to Freddie irritate his skin even more. He tries to ignore everything getting on his nerves, and digs his nails in his own skin, pretty sure he is leaving visible marks behind. Roger doesn’t care much about the nail-shaped indents on his palms, as his senses are dulled enough for him to feel much pain.

He plasters his body by Freddie’s side, and leans in to whisper in the singer’s ear. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

As he pulls back, Freddie looks at him and silently confirms the request. Knowing the man is right behind him, Roger moves to a quieter corner, seeking privacy. It is not as covert as his previous nook, but Rogers assumes it will have to do.

When they stop on the side, Roger doesn't hide the annoyance in his voice when he accuses Freddie, “You sent Brian after me like I am a child to be tended. What is the matter with you?”

“Wow, darling –”

Roger doesn’t stop. “I am not allowed to feel _off_ for one fucking night, huh? But, John can do it each time we throw a party?”

The calm demeanor about Freddie shifts immediately at the mention of Deacon’s name. “Now, don’t go spilling _your_ shit over John. When did he start bothering you? John is always like that, but people like it and he still keeps about the party, in his own way.”

It’s not like Roger minds Deaky’s ways – in fact, he almost always appreciates them; but the drummer finds it easier, and greatly to his benefit, to shift the attention elsewhere. “Well, so was I.”

Freddie snorts. “You, darling, were brooding and glaring at everything moving!” Freddie pauses, breathes in deeply and more calmly provides, “We can’t fucking afford that, damn it. Deaky’s not all vivaciousness, and Brian keeps talking to people about his bloody stars. I love him and all, but that ain’t selling records. I need you on this with me.”

“Fucking make Brian do it then. You seem to have a great ability to influence him. I don’t feel like mixing around tonight.” With those words said, Roger moves to squeeze past the singer and leave the entire night behind himself, but he is stopped with an unyielding snare on his forearm. One he is sure is bound to bruise.

When he looks at the singer, Freddie’s eyes are full of anger, clearly radiating the information that defiance will only heat the wrangling further. “You think I’m always feeling up for a fucking party, huh Roger? _Well, I am not_. There are evenings when I want to fucking be done with a gig and just go back home without signing posters and chests and asses, and get a damn drink, bathe for an hour and sleep like a log. But, this lifestyle doesn’t let us have all we want, when we fucking want it. It bloody keeps us prisoners, darling. It’s the cost we all agreed to pay when we signed up for this. So, suck it up and behave for a few hours, and then you can sulk all you want. Okay?”

“Fine,” Roger sneers.

“There you go, darling. Now give me a smile,” the dark-haired man urges.

As soon as his request is met, Freddie’s hand lands on Roger’s butt. Though familiar with the contact, Roger winces at the touch. The older man smirks at his discombobulated expression and walks away with a teasing wink, leaving Roger with no other option, but to follow. So, he half-heartedly returns to the party.

He does what is expected of him during the entirety of the gaiety. He chats and cracks jokes at his usual speed, laughs inanimately with a faked interest whenever the conversation stirs that way. Nobody suspects he is in ill mood, except the people who know him too well and already pointed that particular fact out. Halfway through the night, he starts feeling at ease because of people’s ignorance. The drinking takes an essential part in aiding his comfort, as well.

He catches glimpses of Freddie smiling at him approvingly when no one is watching, John’s trailing around the entire evening and Roger notices Brian drawing stars over a napkin for an unfortunate group of people. He _does_ see Freddie’s point, but the only thing which pesters down his misery is downing drinks faster than his heartbeat’s chanting during his drums solos.

When the party is at last easing, Roger is beyond drunk. It is no wonder he was brash to the last group of people who were trying to chat him up. He is barely standing up on his feet, yet is uncaring for his state of discomposure. Throwing a glance at the singer, Roger finds the man immerged in a conversation and decides not to intrude. He trots shakily out of the hall, where he stumbles over his own feet, hands flailing to reach for something concrete to grasp on to. As he finds nothing within arm’s length, Roger acquiesces with the fact he will test the floors.

Before he lands down, however, arms wrap around him and pick him up to stand. He throws a glance over his shoulder, and is met with John’s half-judgmental, half-compassionate look.

“I’ve neve’ been more hap’ to see ya,” he slurs in the bassist's face.

John cringes at the smell of Roger’s breath, but doesn’t let go. “Yes, yes. I am your absolutely favorite person.”

Roger’s arm gets thrown over Deacon’s shoulder, and Roger leans into the man, letting the younger one support his weight.

“You’re ‘ gud friend, Deak.”

Roger barely catches the mumbled response. “Someone has to be, or the lot of us will be doomed.” Somewhat more clearly come the words, “Let’s get you back to your hotel room.”

And, then the drummer proceeds to weakly cheer, “Go, Johnny, go!”

The bassist groans at his enthusiasm as it makes carrying the drummer a more challenging task, and flushes Roger closer by his side, trying to support the brandish man.

Roger doesn’t catch much of the world around him as he is dragged through corridors back to his room. To John’s credit, he doesn’t let go until he helps Roger land in bed, and only then does Roger fully relax. He sighs into the pillow and his body goes lax, as John tries to get him out of his clothes.

Roger is halfway asleep, eyes rolling behind partially closed eyelids. John is being much too careful in his treatment. Roger will have to remember to thank him in the morning. After the hangover passes and he is done being groggy, which Roger knows will technically result with an early afternoon gratitude. But a gratitude, nonetheless.

As exhaustion sweeps over him anew, Roger resonates on his reasons for inconsiderate drinking and decides the costs are more than worth the reason.

Since John is already aware of his fancies, having called him out on them not too long after they had started, Roger estimates it is safe to confide in the bassist again. “I jus’ love‘im so much, ya’ know?”

Roger’s eyes close, but his world keeps spinning. John is silent for a moment.

“He is soh per’ect,” Roger continues, unperturbed by the lack of response.

John swings the pajamas at him. “Maybe you should tell _him_ that.”

Roger doesn’t take the clothes. They remain in disarray, plain scattered material over the drummer's chest. Sleep overcomes him by the time John leaves the room.

When morning arrives the air in the room feels chilly, in spite of it being summer. With red-rimmed eyes and a blotchy face, Roger tumbles out of bed. When his feet touch the ground, he has to pause for a moment. Taking in one deep breath after another, the drummer tries to keep the nausea at bay. There is hammering in his head, and Roger closes his eyes, wishing for an unachievable clear schedule for the day.

Few determined steps echo in the corridor, before they die away out the door, and then a knock comes over it. The blond man tries to croak out a response, but his sleep-addled brain forms unintelligible words, which his husky voice barely sees past his lips. Roger gives it another try after clearing his throat, but whoever is at the door remains oblivious if the persistency in the following knock is anything to go by.

The drummer slowly raises from the bed, his knees shaking under him. He barely keeps himself upright as he strolls for the door. He ignores another wave of nausea in the process, and leans against the closest wall when he reaches his destination.

Another knock echoes in the room, and Roger stifles a groan. He yanks the door open. Due to his prostration, the action doesn’t display his annoyance as well as he would like it to. Brian is standing outside, one hand half-raised.

“Roger,” the guitarist greets, and shuffles past him in the room.

Roger’s eyes trail after the figure for an uncollected moment, before the drummer catches himself and looks away. He reaches out and gives the door a little push, and it caves under his hand, before it slams shut. Instantly regretting his own decision, the drummer winces as the sound shocks his senses.

His name is called again when he turns back from the door and heads for the bed. He doesn’t answer until he is seated, and even then, the reply is a mere grunt.

“Are you alright?” Brian sounds concerned.

Roger doesn’t care much. He dives his head in his open palms and even though the sound is muffled, his next words are clear. “What do you want? Or, did Freddie send you _again_?”

He is still holding grudges from the previous night, acting completely as the petulant child everyone takes him for. He doesn’t believe himself mature enough to have overgrown it, either.

There is a prolonged moment of silence which follows his words, and Roger contemplates looking up, but doesn’t have the strength in him to do so.

“I want to know if my friend is alright.”

The drummer can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice when he responds, “You didn’t give a fucks ass last night. Why would you care now?”

“I cared last night too, Roger. Except you didn’t let me get to the question before storming off.”

“Oh, sshz, so it’s my fault again. Turn wherever you go, Roger is to blame. His fault the music doesn’t work, his fault the lyrics are shit. Roger is guilty because the party is dying, he is the one who doesn’t want to mingle. Roger’s fault that you didn’t deem it _fucking_ fit to talk to him!” At those words, the drummer fixes Brian with a glare, but he lowers his head back again with an exasperated sigh.

“Why is Roger referring to himself in the third face?” Brian muses, but gets ahold of his thoughts, and informs, “Anyhow, it isn’t about placing blame. It is about fixing a problem.”

Roger is out of his seat in a flash, dizziness be damned. “Oh, so now I am a problem, too?!”

“Stop putting words in my mouth!”

“Because, you might as well, just get rid of me then.”

“Roger, I am trying to talk here, but you seem determined on taking everything the wrong way. You are being childish.”

“Yes, I believe we established a while ago I am both inane and irresponsible.” Roger’s voice reverberates against the walls of the room. “Is that what you want to bring this conversation back to, huh worried friend?”

“Yes, if it is going to make you realize getting drunk enough to be carried back to your room is going to get you in trouble someday.” Brian’s hands are flailing wildly, out of control; just as his voice. He has never known himself to be so angry.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, last night was an _adamant_ proof of that.”

Roger’s eyes squint at him. “Oh, now you learn how to use sarcasm.”

“I know how to use sarcasm, I just avoid it. Now, Roger, please. Don’t change the subject.”

“Sorry, my bad. _Again_.”

“Roger, it is not John’s job to come running every time you are drunk. It’s not to anyone of us. But we still do it, because we care. I am talking to you about your drinking, because it is getting out of line. And, I care about you.”

“Yet, nobody pesters Freddie when he drinks.”

“True, but he is perfectly capable to get hammered, and yet make it back to his room safely. He even makes it through a shag or two.”

“Is that from personal experience?” Roger counters with a question, making Brian rear back like slapped.

The room is suddenly in silence. The open window shrieks and clutters an unfortunate vase to the floor.

Roger attempts, “I am sorry, Brian.”

The guitarist bites on his lower lip, peeling a thin layer of skin off. Blood draws at the surface.

“Bri,” Roger tries one more time.

Brian’s next words are composed, but carry a finality about them which seems deprecating. “You know, if you could for a moment see beyond your own ego, then you’d see three pairs of eyes constantly trying to discern how to help out. Freddie is going easy on you with the plans for the new record, John’s stepping up with barely jammed songs to compensate for your lack of presence, and I am beating myself up for not being friend enough to be of assistance.”

The guitarist draws in a breath. His next words are carefully delivered.

“What is happening with you, Roger? You don’t confide in me as you used to, you barely talk to me and even when you do talk, you are reserved. I feel like our friendship is falling apart and there is nothing _I_ can do. You dodge everything with excuses and it is constant lies. I notice them, even though I don’t mention them. But, I am sick of it. Where did I go wrong?”

“Can we have this conversation when I am not hammered?”

Shaking his head, Brian sighs. “This is you telling me we never will. But, if that is what you want, I will keep ignoring this.” Vaguely gesturing at Roger’s body, the guitarist casts one look at his friend and makes a road for the door.

He changes his mind moments before stepping out, and adds, “It seems you’ve made your decision already, and the friends around you are not given the right of an opinion. I hope you never regret it.”

Roger doesn’t have time to blink, but Brian is already out the door.

The feeling of regret which washes over Roger is unpalatable, and dejected he buries his face in his hands. Being unable to confess to his friend what he feels is equally hurtful as is the resignation Brian met his words with. As if he didn’t expect Roger to talk to him, in the first place. As if their friendship was a long lost one. And, even though being with Brian without being open and together hurts; living without his friendship rankles intensely, like a jellyfish sting.

“Brian,” the drummer calls out, pouncing on his feet. Once he snatches the door open, one more time he exclaims, his voice high-pitched, “Brian!”

The hallway answers with mocking silence.

“Fuck,” the drummer bites out. He sinks his teeth in his fist, leaving marks behind as testimony of his own failures. More weakly, an echo of the early curse, “Fuck.”

True to his word, Brian does not only pretend there is nothing happening, but completely keeps away. The only time Roger sees Brian being his true self is when the whole gang is assembled, and even then Brian rarely addresses him. He keeps interaction to discussions regarding their work or to sharing information, short and professional. Their conversations when alone are limited to half-interaction, half-awkwardness; small talk being the most they manage to achieve. An occasional glance when passing each other during work, a twitch of a laugh when a well-planned joke on his own expense slips past Roger undetected.

The drummer tries to convince himself to talk to his friend, and fix the remaining structure of their friendship, before the entirety crumbles even more. Convinced, on partial infliction, that Brian doesn’t trust him with anything anymore, Roger imagines each attempt can only do more damage. Cowardly, he keeps away.

He carries out the advice Brian’s offer entailed. He keeps the drinking to minimum at every party, but still interacts with the highest manageable number of people. Privately, he withdraws to his room when his presence is no longer necessary. He doesn’t hang out with the band outside the must, not as much as he used to anyhow. If his band mates notice the change, they keep mute on the subject. Roger doesn’t stop at the drinking. He sorts out his habits, and gets in the studio right on time every morning; caffeinated, nicotined and ready to work.

Through most of the days, he is efficient. There are some honest exceptions when he spends the entire day listening to everyone suggesting one change after another, but is unable to contribute in any known way. Those are the days he thinks of Brian a bit too hard, but does his blasted best to keep up with the company and not give anything away.

He knows John can see right through him, though. He notices the way the bassist looks at him on those days, the way he sneaks around the two other man to stand by Roger and never fails to land a reassuring hand on his shoulder. And, when he is under the weather so, the youngest of the group sits with him in the evenings in silence to keep him company. Roger appreciates it more than he manages to express.

On Brian’s birthday, he walks up to the guitarist’s room and lays his gift at the doorstep. He knocks on the door and waits, listening for signs of movement inside. When he hears Brian stir, he flees, leaving the present there. His note is packed in, so Brian will know who the gift is from either way; and Roger doesn’t have the strength to face him.

Brian doesn’t say anything about the present when he walks in the studio an hour later and doesn’t mention the note either, and all of Roger’s remaining hopes shatter. If Brian isn’t willing to speak after the extent of that letter and the honesty it conveyed, then Roger can get the fucking message. An offered olive branch to the dustbin it is. Nodding to himself, Roger turns away from the rest of the group, to hide a solitary tear making a way down his right cheek.

From there, everything moves forward the same way. There are good days and bad days. One of those bad days is Roger’s birthday. He wakes up feeling giddy, for a reason contemplating maybe things would change for the better.

He walks in the studio beaming, only to find Brian still hasn’t arrived. John and Freddie move forward once they see him, each offering congratulations and a virile, quite excessive, hug. John is stepping away from him when the guitarist enters the room. Roger perks up at seeing the older man, and turns to face him, but Brian heads straight for the guitar. He picks the instrument up, and looks expectantly at the three frozen figures in the room, asking, “So, are we going to work or what?”

Roger’s shoulders slump forward, and he sees John giving him a marginally pitying look. He breathes in and out, and then his eyes catch Freddie’s confused expression. The singer tries to speak up, but Roger’s awareness of the words Freddie aims to give as a reminder of the drummer’s birthday makes him cut in. Giving the singer a meaningful look, Roger rasps out, “Yeah, we are.”

Needless to say, his spirits rather dampen from there. The drummer doesn’t hide his plight through the course of the morning, mostly because he doesn’t have the wish to do so. Besides, the only one who wouldn’t notice a merriment faked, would be the one who was the cause for it.

Roger isn’t sure what exactly he has expected to happen, but receiving no gift, no letter, and not even a pathetic, dishonest “Happy birthday” from the guitarist, isn’t it.

He ignores Brian when he asks him about the beat for the upcoming part of the song, and just confirms John’s response to the question. Everything seems to worsen a tenfold. As the time at the studio nears the end, the tension exponentially raises. Roger ogles the door on more than one occasion, and is almost certain it would be less than one take later when he rushes out of it. He is not given a chance to see if the case will be so.

Of course, the first person who breaches their maladroitness is Freddie.

“Now darlings, can we please just hear the track all in the same room?”

When his words receive no reply, he trots on, “I mean I love being a messenger between the two of you,” he states, whipping his finger between the guitarist and the drummer, “it can be an honor – really flattering. I am sure John agrees. But, for heaven’s sake, can we _please_ fucking try and get this album together before the end of this century?”

Freddie’s drama is, as always at the beginnings of making an album, intense. Even as he speaks, his fingers are shaping a lilt melody on an imaginary piano, and Roger has trouble following the music Freddie is clearly listening in his mind. The singer’s fingers rest on the surface where he was drumming moments ago, the nails announcing the torpidity which suddenly nestles Freddie’s arm.

“Look, I don’t pretend to understand what has gotten into the pair of you. But, whatever it is, resolve it tonight before, during or after the party – so we can work tomorrow, alright?”

Roger nods and mumbles a confirmation. Brian keeps silent, but his curls give his averment.

“Good,” the front-man states, and hushes out the room. John follows suit.

The work remains forgotten behind them, and Roger is aware both him and Brian are too out of spirits to pick up the crumbs and proceed where the other two members had left off. Tomorrow, he promises himself opulently, and hopes the reassurances won’t be in vain.

Shaking the thoughts away, Roger gets up to leave, but is stopped by Brian’s hand landing on his shoulder gentle. The drummer can’t look up at his friend, the penumbral secret weighing in over his shoulders. But, it appears the guitarist is waiting for eye contact.

Roger turns around in a desultory manner.

Brian levels him with a gaze and unsurely asks, “Can we talk?”

“I don’t know, Brian. We’ve been trying to talk, but we never make it past pleasantries.”

Brian’s semblance is unreadable, the guitarist’s eyes dancing between Roger’s blues.

“Look, can we do this later?” the drummer inquires. “I’d like to get ready for _my_ birthday party, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, _shit_ ,” the guitarist whispers. Then Brian’s stance morphs into one familiar to the drummer, and he sees the regret glinting a presence in the taller man’s eyes. “I completely forgot! Rog, I am sorry. Happy birthday.”

Brian moves in for a hug, but the shorter man takes a step back, avoiding the arms seeking embrace. Brian sinks back at the rejection.

“Thank you.” Roger’s eyes shield up after a brief second of a shattered look in them. The drummer’s heart clenches in his chest. “Would you have remembered, if I didn’t point this out?”

“I really am sorry. It completely slipped my mind.”

“I am sure you were preoccupied. It is righteously forgotten. I mean yours slipped past me and I failed to wish you all the best.” A pause, and Brian looks completely defeated. “Oh, wait! I did not.”

“Roger, come on. I said I was sorry.”

“The first thing I thought when I woke up a week ago was that it was my friend’s birthday. We weren’t talking then either, Brian, but I still spent a whole week thinking what to get you, because years of friendship can’t just be erased. Or, so I thought.”

Roger pauses a moment, breathes in and out, before saying, “Listen, I don’t want to fight. I picked myself up as you all wanted, and started working. If there are any other complaints, by all means, share them. If not, this is my queue.”

He leaves the room with those words hanging behind to ring in the guitarist’s ears.

Roger enters his party looking like a walking sin; black jeans tightly gripping his legs, a blue shirt molding the muscles on his arms and hair tousled in ripples. His eyes are full of mischief, bright and damning. He rolls a few locks behind his ear, fingers catching on the knots and Roger twists them out, before reaching out to pick up a drink from a passing tray.

He smirks around the rim of the glass, winks at the first girl who catches his eyes. It is _his_ night, Roger is sure he won’t allow anything to spoil it.

Freddie pops out of a shadow somewhere, and drawls in his ear, “Darling, you look _delectable_. If you are interested and can’t find another victim, I am definitely taking you to bed at the night’s out.”

“Fred, if you can charm these pants off me, it will be me taking _you_ to bed,” he flirts, banter-like.

The front-man gives him an impressed eyebrow, an amused smirk playing on his lips. Well, it must be the first time Roger’s seen the man speechless. It is refreshing, and he will take it. He leans into Freddie, throws an arm around his shoulders.

“Dear,” Roger teases. “I never thought I’d see you leave a last word to someone else.”

“This fucking night _only_ , darling. The birthday boy gets special treatment.”

When Roger looks at his friend, Freddie is already looking at him and directs him a wink. He twirls his empty glass and states, “I will go get myself another glass. I’d ask you to come along,” Freddie drawls, motioning to the right with his glass, before continuing, “But, there is someone who clearly wants to speak with you.”

Roger follows a line in the pointed direction and finds Brian standing a few feet away, his eyes questioning and fingers latched on his clothes, by his sides.

A reassuring squeeze on his shoulder is all Roger receives from the singer, before Freddie leaves his side.

Brian approaches as though moving in on an injured animal. “Hey.”

“Hey,” the drummer echoes.

Weakly, Brian mumbles, “Happy birthday.” His lips twist to the side, contorting his face in a fugacious grimace.

Roger downs his drink, and snatches another before thanking his friend.

They stand in silence a while, before Roger remembers, “Where is Chrissie?” 

“She couldn’t make it.”

Roger downs the drink in his hand in one go, enjoying the burning sensation in his throat.

The ever-patronizing, “You should ease up on those.”

It takes all Roger can muster not to throw the empty glass at someone. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Even on my birthday?” The drummer’s fingers curl over the glass, breaking it. He lets go off the particles, which crumble to the floor.

 “Yeah, no more lecturing.”

Roger moves past the taller man and asks for a cloth at the bar. He swipes over the small cut, clearing away the welled up blood. He knows he is lucky the damage isn’t more severe. He looks up, expecting to be alone, but Brian is standing close in front of him, a worried crease between his brows.

“You alright?”

Roger confirms, “Yeah.”

He leans over the bar, and picks up a glass of whiskey. There is judgment in Brian’s browns when Roger meets his gaze, but no words get exchanged. Arching a condescending eyebrow, the drummer splashes the drink over the cut, susurrating a curse. He wraps the cloth over it again once he deposits of the glass, and when he takes it off couple of minutes later, the blood had ceased.

The silence unravels, growing slightly pesky.

Unexpectedly, Brian extends his hand, and Roger catches a small box laying on the man’s palm. “This is for you.”

Roger takes the offered box silently.

“There is something else from all of us for later, but this was something I wanted to give you. Enjoy your party, Rog.”

As the older man speaks, Roger feels a nagging sensation of curiosity creeping up his spine. The box is neatly swathed, and Roger’s fingers glade over the wrapping.

Brain clears his throat by him, and Roger looks up. His voice is raucous, when he speaks, “Thanks, Bri.”

The man addresses the drummer a private smile, and his eyes are warm when offers a nod.

The guitarist’s curls dangle as he walks away.

Roger remains dumbfounded, his fingers pointlessly turning the box in his hands, until he hears a well-known voice behind him, asking a question clearly addressed to him. “You’ve told him yet?”

“Hmm?” the drummer wonders, and then the words fully-register, so he responds, “No.”

John hums, contemplating. “Will you?”

“No.”

The man moves to stand by his side, shoulders brushing. Roger would consider it a coincidence, but he knows Deaky all too well, and the man is trying to offer support, ever so subtle.

“Why not?”

“He is married?” He means it as a sass, but the words seem dry and lifeless on his lips.

“Or, you are being a chicken.” The silence between them stretches for a couple of minutes. Both their gazes are aimed at the guitarist, who is chatting animatedly, entirely oblivious. “He will understand.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

John chuckles. “Well, it cannot get worse than it already is.”

Roger turns to face his friend, a small smile on his lips. This one is almost shy, a smile only John is able to evoke. “Have I ever told you I hate your logic?”

“Every single day since we met.”

A brief armful of John later, the bassist is pulling away. “Think about this _later_. It would be a shame for this party to go without the birthday boy.”

He intends on listening to John’s advice and entering the party, but only after he opens the box Brian gave him. He sneaks away as soon as he manages, deftly baring the present to see a piece of paper laying on top of a watch. He removes the paper, and presses it against the underside of the box, before taking the watch out. Just to his taste, not that he would suspect Brian’s knowledge of his whims and desires. Roger is about to return the watch in its place, when something catches his eyes. He turns it over. On the back of the case, there is an engraving of the constellation Leo. Roger’s lips form a smile.

He opens the note, and tries to collect his feelings as he reads it out.

_I didn’t forget your birthday. Maybe a little bit, this morning. But, here’s to you, Rog._

The drummer grins at the note stupidly.

When he returns down to the party, which is beginning to grow, Roger scans the room until his eyes land on the guitarist. Serendipity would have it, the man looks up and meets his eyes. Roger smiles, grateful, and Brian responds in kind. It is more than they had offered each other in a month. It isn’t much, but to the drummer it appears like progress.

From there, it isn’t difficult for Roger to relax and enjoy the night.

By the end of the party, the drummer is buzzing with excitement. The liquor is efficiently fueling his vigor, he feels completely relaxed. Roger is sure he is losing his rational thinking, when he catches himself ogling the guitarist and picturing him in his room, in his bed. Himself, curled against Brian’s lissome body.

He is about to look away before he does something stupid, when Brian looks up from his glass and settles his eyes on him. Inadvertently, Roger stalks forward. His eyes never leave Brian’s, and the guitarist looks equally transfixed. Roger drops his glass along the way, smirks knowingly at his friend.

He would press against the length of Brian’s body right there, if he didn’t mind the company. Instead, he closes up as much as possible, leaning into the taller person’s space and trails his fingers down Brian’s forearm. He can’t help the smugness when the guitarist’s breath catches in his throat. His fingers curl around Brian’s palm, and stepping away, Roger urges before letting go. He smiles at Brian over his shoulder, and continues walking.

The party is already winding down, he can be excused, Roger imagines. He exits the hall, and heads upstairs to his room. He doesn’t stop to see if Brian is following. He only hopes that is the case.

When he reaches his hotel room, he half-plants against the door, his forehead resting against the wooden surface. Someone clears their throat behind him, and Roger looks over.

“Hey,” he manages a whisper.

Brian’s eyes are taking in his expression, but the guitarist face seems a well-formed, unreadable façade.

So, Roger opens the door of his room and walks inside, leaving it cracked. A clear sign of invitation. He hears Brian enter after him. When the older man is closing the door shut, Roger spins around and uses the advantage of Brian’s turned back, to slide against the length of the older man and wrap his arms around Brian’s waist.

The man stiffens underneath him. Roger keeps to his ground, one arm resting over Brian’s stomach, and another stretching over the older man’s chest and curling around the nape of his neck. Roger noses between Brian’s shoulder blades, the silky material of the guitarist’s shirt moreish against his cheek. The drummer drags his lips over the arched blade, testing boundaries. Brian is still rigid under his touch, but isn’t pulling away. Roger breathes in, and sinks in the warmth of Brian’s perfume. He holds on, doesn’t let go even when the taller man tries, “Rog?”

“Please, just tonight.” the drummer notes more to himself, than to the other man. “Give me only tonight. With you.”

Brian starts turning in his arms, and though Roger doesn’t want to let go, he realizes he must face Brian sooner or later. He steps back and when confused brown eyes interlock with his, he pleas, “Just _us_.”

He believes Brian will soar out of the room. Instead frenzied arms rave at his shirt and pull him closer. They keep at it, until Roger feels himself become one with the older man. The groan culminating in his chest is swallowed by Brian’s mouth, which is capturing his own in fever, seeking permission and delving deeper once granted. Brian’s arms rest on his waist, and only then does the blond man react. He pushes up against the guitarist, huddling him against the door in a hornet of limbs and forcing further, trying to mold their bodies there and never let go.

They exchange kisses as they cling to each other, coming for breath only to dive in again. Roger’s heart is nearly beating out of his chest, the drummer’s blood is surging fire in his veins. He had imagined and thought and fantasized, but never had he expected all to feel so fulfilling, so vital and so world-shaking.

Roger doesn’t plan on letting go. He will never give up the sensation of being complete. He will never forget the sensation of Brian in his arms. And, himself in the other’s embrace, either.

Then, after a period of egalitarianism in the exchanging of caresses, Brain comes alive under him again, his breathlessness leaving a beast in its departure. The taller man pushes Roger towards the bed, frantically dismembering their clothes, before landing them naked on the mattress.

From there, it is dreams coming alive. Lives unraveling. Worlds changing. It is imbue of the crisp of a guitar and cadence of drums, intertwining to form an aria.

Roger wakes up naked, covered only with a light duvet. His entire body is sore, in the best possible way. Flashes of the previous night scorch his eyes. _What a birthday._

Only then he notices the bed is empty, if not for him. He shifts, and the ache the movement causes, has him hissing in delight. Roger ruffles his hair away from his eyes and scans the room for Brian. The guitarist is nowhere to be found.

_Brian’s lips on his neck, marking and owning, as he writhes under the other’s sweat-covered body. “Oh, fuck. Bri. I –” He trails off with a moan. “I love you.”_

Roger’s smile washes away, a sinking feeling sets in his chest. But, but. Brian said it back.

_The lips on his neck open with a pant, and teeth sink in his pulse point. Brian’s body rolls against him, caging and next, the older’s lips melt on Roger’s. When the man pulls away and locks his gaze with Roger, he provides, “I love you, too.”_

There is no reason for Brian to be gone, Roger reassures himself silently.

The door of the bathroom opens, and Brian walks out with a towel low on his hips, and another in his hands as he is trying to dry off his flattened hair. Roger relishes in the view, relaxing back in the beddings. Brian hasn’t noticed he is awake yet. Roger decides to use it to his advantage and observe.

With his eyes half-closed, he follows Brian’s every move. Watches as the guitarist gets dressed, waits to see if he will leave the room. His prophecy doesn’t come true. When Brian dresses, he makes a beeline for the bed, and shuffles a seat by Roger’s side.

The older man leans in, ghosting lips over Roger’s cheek, before moving towards his ear, “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Roger pretends to still be asleep.

Teeth nibble on the shell. “I know you are awake, you pretender. Now get up and shower. We need to be in the studio in an hour.”

After pressing a kiss on Roger’s forehead, Brian moves to get up, but the drummer grasps his wrist and doesn’t let go. Voice raspy, he asks, “What was last night to you?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so vulnerable, but he can’t help it.

Brian pecks him on the lips. Roger keeps his mouth shut despite his desire to deepen the kiss. He should have woken up before Brian.

“Everything.”

The word is so effusive, Roger almost misses it. Brian is out the door before Roger manages to ask its meaning.

He walks in the studio last. They are all working, but their attention moves to him the moment he steps through the door. John nods in greeting, Brian smiles all too sweetly and Roger restricts himself from grinning back, and Freddie makes it straight for the point.

“Darling, you look absolutely _debauched_.”

Roger trails away his eyes from Brian and says, “And, you entirely amused.”

“I am. My, my, you are in a _good_ mood.” Freddie smirks. “And, I wondered why you didn’t take me up on my offer. You got a better one, eh?” He winks at Roger and moves past him, probably to pick up his drink.

Roger looks over to Brian guiltily, but the guitarist is shaking his head with a tentative smile still on his lips, and Roger relaxes. He jokes, “It was athletic.”

Freddie cracks a smile, before bursting into laughter. Roger is about to question his reasons, when Freddie’s fingers pull away his collar and press into a spot which has Roger take in a sharp breath.

“Dominating too. I _approve_ , darling.”

John’s eyes are comically wide, his mouth hanging open. Brian looks smug beyond allowed. Roger refuses to admit a blush is decorating his cheeks.

Freddie cuts in Roger’s evaluation of the band, when he states, “Let’s get to work, darlings.”

They sleep together every night till the end of the week, and each night is better than the previous. Roger holds on to Brian with all his might, chants his love over and over again, choosing not to think about Brian’s wife, who is waiting for her husband to come back home once the work on the album is done.

He has his head perched up on Brian’s chest and his hair is cool between his cheek and the guitarist’s skin, when the man in question starts, “Chrissie wants us to try for a kid.”

Roger’s throat clenches into a lump. His fingers reflexively twitch against Brian’s skin, afraid of losing it all. The words he whispers are muffled against Brain’s chest. “And, what do you want?”

“I want her to be happy.”

“What about your happiness?”

The arms around him tighten for a moment, then a response follows, “As long as I have you, I will be.”

Roger’s heart skips a few beats. He skates his fingers down Brian’s chest to lay them flat on his stomach.

“You have me,” he whispers, gingerly.

“I know.”

They remain laying in silence, and Roger is moments from falling asleep when he hears his name called. He hums.

“Are you happy?” Brian asks. “I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”

The drummer looks up, suddenly very alert. He affirms. “I am.”

A hand comes to cradle his cheek, and Brian’s eyes well up with tears. Roger feels the walls closing in on him, cutting his breathing short. He has a damning feeling he knows what Brian’s next words will be.

“We must end this, Roger.”

Roger swallows. “Don’t ask that from me, please.”

“You know we won’t be able to keep this up forever.”

“I won’t give you up.”

A tear slides down Brian’s cheek. Roger thumbs it away. “John and Freddie are gonna figure it out sooner or later. Chrissie will find out.”

“I don’t care. I _can’t_ give you up.”

“I can’t do this to Chrissie. You must understand that.”

“I love you, Brian. I want to be with you. I want us to be together for the whole world to see. I don’t want us to be a dirty little secret.”

“That’s why we can’t go on Roger. Either way we go, we will be the dirty secret. It’s going to ruin us, ruin everything we’ve worked for.”

The drummer pushes away from Brian’s embrace, and jams a finger in his shoulder. “I don’t care.” Twice. “I love you.” Again. “ _You_.” Again.

The older man reaches out, but is met with nothing. “I can’t hurt Chrissie like that. I love her.”

“But, you can hurt me?”

“That is the last thing I want to do.”

“Prove it.” Roger is sitting up, supporting himself on his knees now, eyes fixed on Brian expectantly.

“That’s what I am doing.”

“No, what you are doing _is_ hurting me.”

Though calculated, Brian sounds desperate. “Roger, please.”

Roger jumps out of bed. “No!”

Brian shuffles right after him. “Listen.”

“No! You can’t just. No!”

Brian’s palms grasp the drummer’s arms, pressing them against the younger man’s body. Brian forces Roger to meet his gaze, before he begins, “I love you, Roger.”

The drummer shakes his head, unconvinced.

“You need to see that I love you more than I should. I loved you long before Chrissie, and God forgive me, I will long after her. You are the first person I ever turn to for advice, you are the first person I want to cry with, the first person I want to celebrate with. I love you. But, if we keep up with this, the band is going to take a hit. We will lose each other in the havoc our lives will become, and sooner or later we will start hating each other for it.”

“Never,” Roger manages.

“We will, and this, _this paradise_ will forever be gone. This week of indulgence has been the best in my life,” Brian confesses, a tear rolling down his cheek, mimicking Roger’s tears. “I thought I would never get to have you. I thought you were unreachable, I never thought I’d kiss these lips.” As though to prove it, he seals his lips over Roger’s melancholically. Their shaky breaths part, and Brian proceeds, “Being able to wrap my arms around you will always be a cause for a smile. But, it has to end here. Where we are both happy, and everyone is oblivious. Where we still haven’t injured others. Understand, please.”

“No!” the blond man cries out. “Don’t do this to me. Please, Bri.”

“Let’s just cling together for tonight, and tomorrow we will be able to let go.”

Roger tries to shuffle closer, realizing his unawareness of when they had gravitated so near. “I will never let go.”

“You must. Please, come back to bed. My love.” Brian kisses the drummer’s lips. Reverently, he whispers, “My love.”

He takes Roger to bed that night. It is the last night they hold each other strong.

Roger doesn’t speak with Brian for a week, and Brian understands why. It doesn’t mean it hurts any less. He knows what the younger man wants, because he wants it himself just as much. But, he is aware of the wrongness of the situation and knows Roger is too. That’s why Roger is keeping away, not trying his best to change his mind. Brian understands.

He walks in the studio a week later, clutching a piece of paper in his hands, and announces he has written a song for their Japanese fans. Passing the paper to Freddie, he plays a poorly made track with his vocals, because Roger must hear the words from him. The track starts, and when Brian looks up Roger’s eyes are on him. He exhales slowly. Doesn’t look away.

_Let us cling together as the years go by_  
_Oh my love, my love_  
_In the quiet of the night_  
_Let our candle always burn_  
_Let us never lose the lessons we have learned._

Freddie bends over the paper, doodling something away. John is looking over the singer’s shoulder.

So, they can pretend they are alone in the room. Just as they are alone in their locked eyes, alone in a world only they know exists. Familiar with the love brewing between them, aware of the hearts beating in union and without hope. They are alone to hear the words witnessing their truth.

_Hear my song_  
_Still think of me the way you've come to think of me_  
_The nights grow long_  
_But dreams live on_  
_Just close your pretty eyes and you can be with me. . . dream on._

Brian stares at Roger, conveying his confession to whom the song is truly dedicated. He looks hard enough to see a tear skate down Taylor’s cheek, and his fingers tingle with the wish to reach out and wipe it away. He doesn’t. Roger does that himself. It is how it has to be.

Roger gives him a small smile and then flees the room. The other two members of the band look up when the door slams shut. Brian fakes confusion, when he provides, “I’ll go and see what’s with him. You keep listening.” Freddie only hums and focuses on the paper again, but John gives him an understanding look. Brian suspects the bassist is not as unaware as they would like to believe. He doesn’t seem to mind, knows John won’t judge.

He finds Roger in the hallway, alone with the tears streaming down his face. The man squeals when he sees him, and the tears flow a tenfold. Brian embraces him, cradles Roger in his arms and against his chest, and whispers reassurances until the weeping subdues.

“I don’t want to let go,” he hears soon enough.

“You are not.”

Roger’s firm grip on his shirt is wrinkling the material, and Brian knows he will smile when he sees the evidence of Roger’s grasp on his clothes later.

“Can we still be as we were, do you think?”

“You will always be my friend, Roger. Through everything.”

“But, nothing more?” and the hope still present there crunches Brian’s heart to pieces.

He wants to give in, profess again his love for the man before him. Wants to say he would give everything up for them, if only he could. Wishes to have the chance to return back home to Roger, and relax by his side, without the feeling of guilt for injuring others. He want to share all of it with Roger.

“You didn’t hear the end of the song,” he says, instead trying his damnedest not to let his voice break midline. “Be strong. Don’t turn your heart. You’re all. We’re all. For all. For always.”

Roger’s palm nests on the back of his neck, and the drummer is peeling away and bringing him closer. Brian knows the aim, so he whispers, “No, not anymore Rog.”

He still holds on to the embrace, though.

“One more time, _please_. For us. For always. Please.”

Brian doesn’t know if it is the tears in Roger’s eyes, the drummer saying his lyrics or the fact he loves Roger with all his might, but he caves. One last time, for always.

They stay friends, and they remain closer than ever, with that little hidden secret of theirs lurking under their skin as an electricity which attracts. They laugh at the other’s expense, and throw insults at each other. They fight over everything and hug it all out later. They stay friends.

An evening in that friendship, Roger looks over at Brian smiling tentatively at Chrissie, and knows he would never – could never be the cause of their ruin. He still loves that man with all his being, as he has for years back, and as he always will. But, he would never make his friend unhappy for selfishness. He looks back at Dominique, and smiles, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

When he cuts his hair short the first time, he revels in the approving smile Brian gives him. When he becomes a father, he thanks Brian for allowing him to have that gift. When he sees the guitarist cradling an old picture of his, Roger pecks his cheek. When he gets called a dad for the first time, he finds Brian and hugs him for an hour. Brian doesn’t question, just hugs back. When he writes his first words for Brian, he sings them in front of everyone but keeps his eyes on the guitarist.

_One dream, one soul, one prize,  
One goal, one golden glance of what should be._

_This flame that burns inside of me,  
I'm hearing secret harmonies._

_It's a kind of magic._

Brian kisses him that night, but they never speak of it again. And, Roger thinks that kiss is worth the years of abstinence.

The years pass, and he keeps on writing about his love. Brian does too. When Freddie tells them about his illness he keeps a straight face, but cries himself to sleep along Brian that night.

_Those were the days of our lives_  
_The bad things in life were so few_  
_Those days are all gone now but one thing is true -_  
_When I look and I find I still love you._

When Freddie gives up trying, he asks Brian to kiss him. The guitarist does. No questions asked again. When Freddie dies, he goes to Kensal Green Cemetery, and tears his soul and heart out. He cries and yells and begs, and no one is there to pick him up. But, he knows Brian would be, if he knew.

_Why don't you take another little piece of my soul_  
_Why don't you shape it and shake it_  
_'Til you're really in control_  
_All you do is take_  
_And all I do is give_  
_All that I'm asking_  
_Is a chance to live_

When they start touring again, it matters because Brian is by his side. As promised, for always.

Roger knows deep inside, when he dies there is one ghost over his lips he would like to feel. Brian’s kiss.


End file.
